Veilfire Nights
by GreenyLove
Summary: The Breach is sealed, and Skyhold is claimed. The Inquisition catches its breath, but not for long. Somewhere in the Hinterlands, a lone star falls from the heavens...and brings with it magic, terror, memory, and madness. [Iron BullxOC] [CullenxInquisitor]
1. Prologue

**Veilfire Nights**

**Prologue**

A candle flame flickers in the dimness. It illuminates little, save the table it sits on. She becomes aware of a bed, of the thickness of blankets pulled up to her chin. She can feel, for a moment, the weight of them pressing down combined with the stickiness of her own sweat. Then, all sensations stop, and she slips back into slumber.

_The walls of her cage are opaque and cold and blindingly white. It has been years—perhaps a great many—since she last touched them. She learns quickly that it is useless to bang upon them, that it will serve nothing to scream as she does so. Instead she lies in the dead center of her starlight tomb, curled up as tightly upon herself as she can manage. She hums what little of the Chant she remembers, and prays. _

Consciousness flickers.

"Who is she?" an accented voice asks, not unkindly. Someone clothed in gold hovers by her bedside.

The girl in bed, her vision clears, but slowly.

Another voice, masculine and inquiring, replies, "The better question, ambassador, is to wonder _what_ she is, rather that _who._"

"She's not human?" A pale cloud appears on the opposite side of her bed, and after a moment she realizes that it's sunlit hair, surrounding an angular face with pointed ears.

"There is evidence to the contrary, Inquisitor."

The elf disappears from view, replaced by the visage of a man—no, a woman with raven-colored hair. Her voice is dry, and a bit harsh. "She _looks_ human."

"Looks can be deceiving," explains the inquisitive male.

"Are we forgetting how she got here?" snaps a fourth voice, male. The girl in the bed becomes aware of someone, clad in armor and furs, standing at the foot of her bed. He crosses his arms, and seems very distant. "Why are we expecting her to be your run-of-the-mill human?"

In the ensuing contemplative silence, the girl begins to feel her hands, and tentatively moves her thumb. She opens her eyes, fully, for the first time, and shuts them immediately. The window beside her bed emits a sunlight that is painful. She stifles a cry, and tries to lift her hand to shield her eyes, but cannot quite control her limbs. Her arm flails to the left, knocking into a water pitcher and sending it clattering to the floor.

The room erupts. Two of the figures—the raven-haired woman and the woman in gold—back away from her bedside and are replaced by a bald elf, who places the heel of his hand firmly on her forehead.

"Hush, now," he orders, and a wave of drowsiness overtakes her. She struggles to lift her head, to see around the room. She sees only the man at the foot of the bed who looks at her strangely: with distrust, with curiosity, and with fear.

Then the world goes back.

_She cannot recall the amount of time that passes in her starlight tomb. Eventually she forgets the Chant and loses track of her reason for praying. Who does she pray to? She cannot remember. She lies there, clutching her head with one hand and her heart with the other. _

_Without warning, a thunderous boom resonates. She looks up, and sees the walls of her tomb begin to crack. Stardust rains from the ceiling. She crawls to her hands and knees, wincing at the stiffness of her muscles. A green light glows through the crack, accompanied by a hissing sound. The echoes of a thousand dying screams assault her. _

_Without warning, the crack becomes larger. _

_Without warning, the floor caves in, and she plummets._

Consciousness flickers.

The next time she opens her eyes, she finds herself alone. The window beside her bed has been shuttered. Only a few stray beams of light slant into the dim, square room. The candle by the bed has died, burned down into a puddle of wax in its holder.

Her whole body aches, in a way it never has before. Moving slowly, as though underwater, she brings her hand up to rub her forehead, where most of the pain is centered. A painful pulse beats in her skull, as though some bitter dwarf strikes her repeatedly with a forge hammer. She wonders if she is dying, but this thought immediately strikes her as strange.

_Didn't she already die? _

It's a struggle, but she manages to roll over and prop herself up on her elbow. Her hair un-sticks from the pillow, matted from sweat, and falls in a messy reddish tangle around her bare shoulders. She brushes it away from her eyes as they adjust to the dimness.

The stone chamber is sparsely furnished, outfitted with her bed, a nightstand and a trunk banded with iron. The quilts on the bed are worn and mismatched. A single door leads in and out. A small and cobwebbed chandelier hangs low from the ceiling, unlit. The ceiling seems distant. The room itself feels cavernous, but she cannot put a finger on why the openness of it scares her.

Rubbing her forehead again, she swings her legs over the side of the bed, hoping to sit up, but miscalculates her momentum and slides off the mattress, falling on her hip and taking half the covers with her. She whimpers as the pain of impact lances through her side.

The door cracks open, and a small elf pokes her head inside. "Maker, you're awake!"

The girl parts her fever-cracked lips and tries to speak, but a dry cough erupts from her lungs. It wracks her, and she doubles over, hacking. Panicked, the elf rushes into the room, hovering above the girl.

"Oh goodness, oh goodness! Um. Stop, please? They didn't leave me with any water. I'm supposed to get the healer as soon as you wake. They didn't say you'd be coughing," the elf explained in a rush, her face flushed. "At once, they said. I'll—at once!"

The coughing subsides, and the girl lifts her head to ask the elf, kindly, to calm down, only to see that the poor girl was gone, fled out the door and leaving it open behind her.

The girl—she can't quite remember her own name—clamors to her feet and realizes promptly that she is naked. Quickly, she hitches one of the quilts up around her chest, wrapping herself into a makeshift dress. She gathers it closed, wobbling a bit as she maintains her balance. Her head clears slowly, increments at a time, though the forge-hammer pounding does little to help.

_In a tower room, a man in robes pleads with her. "Marry me, Lunete," he begs, "Together, we can rule over these petty men and their petty powers-!" _

"Ah, you've awoken."

The girl jumps, broken from her thoughts, and turns to see a bald elf, accompanied by another elf, female, who carries a tray with a mug and a loaf of bread. The bald elf is familiar—she remembers him from her fits of wakefulness, though she does not know his name.

He gestures to the female elf. "This is Alana. She thought you might be hungry. You've been sleeping for six days."

Immediately the girl becomes aware of an immense ache in her belly. To call it hunger seems to disrespect its enormity. When _was_ the last time she ate? Six days seems a number too small…

She clears her throat and again tries to speak. The words form slowly in her mouth, as though she has not spoken in a great long while. "Where am I?" Her voice was gravely, not like how she remembered it.

The elf seems pleased. "Good. You speak. My name is Solas. Might I know your name?"

"_Marry me, Lunete…" _

The name comes to her suddenly, like a spark of fire alighting a dark room. She remembers a woman—a mother—singing that name in a small room, a long time ago.

"Lunete," she tells Solas, nodding her head, holding the blankets tighter around her frame. She is more aware of her nudity with a man in the room, though Solas seems about as interested in her bare skin as he does in the state of the chandelier.

"Well met, Lunete, is it?" Solas says, clasping his hands behind his back. "As to your question-!"

A figure appears in the doorway. Yet another elf, though this one carried a veil of authority that Lunete cannot remember attributing to elves before. Her pale blonde hair is pushed and pinned back away from her angular face, drawing attention to the intricate blue tattoo around her left eye. "Lisle said the girl was awake?"

"Ah, Inquisitor," Solas greets. "Yes, this is Lunete."

"Well met, Lunete," says the Inquisitor, leaning against the doorframe and crossing her arms. "How much do you remember?"

Lunete's brow furrows. She opens her mouth to tell this Inquisitor that a few moments ago she didn't remember her own name, but Solas speaks first.

"I believe that Lunete might appreciate time to recover, before being interrogated. Or do you intend to bring her before the throne and judge her as you did Alexius?" Solas asks, somewhat critically.

The Inquisitor is the first to look away. "She's not a prisoner. I see no need to pass judgment at this time." Straightening, she locks eyes with Lunete and inclines her head. "Until later."

She leaves, a promptly as she arrived. The elf woman Alana sets the tray down on the nightstand, and fusses with the quilts remaining on the bed. Lunete clears her throat and asks again, "Where am I?"

Solas offers her a half-smile and a nod. "Skyhold. Home of the Inquisition."

This gives Lunete pause. The Inquisition of the Divine Age, who established order after the First Blight? That is a couple centuries past. "What year is it?" she asks suddenly, her blood gone cold.

The bald elf's look is a curious one. "What year do _you_ think it is?"

Lunete fiddles with the hem of the blanket wrapped around her. It takes her a moment to think back, to recall what came before waking up in this room. There is the tomb of starlight, the cage where she sings and prays, but that is broken now. Before that, what was there?

_A towering estate, built into a mountainside. _

_Couriers come down the road. She sees them from her bedroom, from the window that faces south. They bring news from Orlais, from the false believers: the White Divine has declared war on the Imperial Chantry. Not just war, no: an Exalted March. _

_Thus the Age lives up to its name. _

"4:40 Black," she says aloud. "They've just declared war—Orlais, that is."

Solas is difficult to read. She cannot tell whether this news surprises, pleases, or concerns him. He simply clears his throat, and turns toward the door. Over his shoulder, he says, "The year is 9:41 Dragon. There is a war, indeed, but not between Orlais and Tevinter. This war, one could argue, is worse."

Anger and incredulity swell in Lunete, and she snaps, "You're lying."

"I am not," Solas says calmly. "There is much to be done, concerning you—but first, perhaps you would like to get dressed and eat something? It has been five hundred years, after all."

With a nod of his head, he leaves Lunete naked and seething, shutting the door behind him.

"Five _hundred_ years?" Lunete sputters, turning towards Alana and nearly tripping on her makeshift dress.

The elf doesn't shrink away, but regards Lunete evenly. "No need to be frightened, human. The Inquisitor's a good sort. She'll get to the bottom of your unusual arrival. Until then, eat something, and I'll call for a bath, then?"

Lunete lowers herself onto the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the bread and cheese without seeing or smelling it. Her hunger has yet to return to her, or if it has, she is too preoccupied to give it heed. "A bath," she repeats flatly. "Yes."

She hears the elf sigh. "Don't start wallowing on me. You've only just woken up."

"_Five hundred years,"_ Lunete says through gritted teeth, glaring at Alana through her flyaway bangs.

Alana remains unfazed, much to Lunete's confusion. Elves should be cowering and fearful and attentive but largely silent and obedient. Seen but not heard. This elf does not behave as any elf she has ever encountered. "Yes, that's a lot of time," Alana says consolingly. She furrows her own brow. "I'm sorry. It must be overwhelming. I'll see about that bath."

With a small bow, Alana departs out the door, calling for someone named Lisle to bring hot water. Alone again, Lunete buries her face in her hands, inhaling. She smells strangely of smoke, and immediately draws back, staring at her fingers. Her skin is ghastly pale, as though the sun hasn't touched her in a very long time.

"Five hundred years," she says to no one. Her head begins to pound again, assailed as she tries hard to remember: how did she get here?

How is she still alive?

What _happened_ five hundred years ago?

The sounds of recruits drilling, swords banging on shields, reaches her ears. She glances towards the window. Her eyes are adjusted to the light now. She stands, adjusting her makeshift dress, and crosses to the shutters, throwing them open. A startled bird flies off as sunlight floods the room and catches in her fiery hair.

She is two stories above the ground level, from her reckoning, in some kind of tower. The courtyard below in outfitted as a training ground. She sees rows of soldiers, fighting, with a few lieutenants marching between them, shouting instructions. Beyond she sees the entrance to some kind of great hall, with the rest of the keep tucked safely around it. The walls were sturdy. The frost-capped mountains loomed beyond. This place was remote, isolated, but not desolate. There was an air of purpose, of hope, that seemed strange to her.

The door opens again behind her. She glances back to see Alana, who carries an armload of folded clothes. "Lisle's readied your bath in the other room. There's not a lot of extra around here, but I manage to piece together something wearable."

Lunete looks out the window once more, and inhales. The mountain air clears her head. "Good," she says, for it is not in her upbringing to thank elves. "When I am finished, I would like an audience."

"With whom?" Alana asks dryly, with some amusement.

Turning away from the window, Lunete gathers her blanket like a lady might gather her skirts, stepping towards the door. "The Inquisitor," she says. "Something has gone wrong, horribly-!"

"That's an understatement," Alana injects, laughing. She ushers Lunete out the door and across the hallway into a smaller, warmer chamber with a fireplace and a wooden bathtub. "The whole world's gone horribly wrong. They only just closed the Breach, only to have you appear. Last thing any of us needed was a girl to come falling out of the clouds like some blasted demon-!"

It was Lunete's turn to interrupt. "What?"

Alana shut the door, giving them privacy. Water steamed invitingly in the wooden tub, a chunk of soap sitting on a stool beside it. Still, Lunete did not disrobe. She stood definitely despite the cold fear running down her back.

"How…what did you say, about me?" she asked again.

Meeting her stare evenly, Alana lowered her voice and said, "That's how they found you—you fell, girl. Straight out of the sky."


	2. Chapter One

**Chapter One**

* * *

"Inquisitor?"

Thana glances up from the papers scattered across her desk. She spies the commander and a familiar kind of lightness swells in her throat. She leans back in her chair, and asks, "Do I have to tell you again?"

Caught off his guard, Cullen clears his throat. "Have I done something wrong?"

The elf rises gracefully, shuffling a few papers into place as she does so. "You called me 'Inquisitor.'"

"That is your title," Cullen replies, nervously. He shifts his weight, awkwardly, as though unsure of how to handle himself. He keeps his eyes trained on the desk, avoiding looking at places like the empty bathtub, the wardrobe, or her bed.

She watches him through her bangs, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "That _title_ is—well, it's almost as bad as 'Worship.' I asked you to call me Thana."

Cullen rewards her with a deep flush, the kind that makes her want to snicker in triumph. She refrains, the picture of professionalism. The commander recovers, and says, "My apologies, Inqui—err—." He coughs again.

"You're fine, Cullen," she says reassuringly, stepping around her desk and gesturing to the balcony. She steps out into the brisk air, the mountain wind tossing the edges of her hair around her freckled face. "What can I do for you?"

The commander tries not to stare as he follows her outside. "I'm sorry to bother you, but your ambassador and spymaster have concerns."

Thana faces Cullen, leaning back against the railing. She trains her expression into neutrality and asks, innocently, "Did they elect you to speak on their behalf?"

He glances up to meet her gaze, his honeyed brown eyes meeting her own green ones. Something seems to spark in the air, something that makes Thana's blood grow warm. To her surprise, Cullen does not look away.

"I volunteered," he says, his voice gone gravely.

"What are their concerns?" she asks, perhaps too quickly, breaking their gaze and turning to face the mountains. She cares for the commander but knows of his troubles and his devotion to his duties. She dares not trouble him more with her advancements.

Cullen appears in her peripheral vision, leaning against the thick stone railing, with a respectable yard between them. "Josephine is dealing with a few banns around Redcliffe, concerned over the events from last week. They think the Breach has opened again. She wants you to give a statement—in writing is fine, she says—to reassure them. Leliana's scouts have reports of the landing site. The impact was minimal, though it seems to have affected the vegetation. She says you'll want to see for yourself. I'm sure they can tell you more, individually."

Thana listens patiently. When Cullen finishes, she nods, shoves off the railing, and heads back in to her desk. "I'll write Josephine her statement. Tell Leliana that I'll arrange a visit to the site."

"Of course," Cullen says, following her. He stops a distance from her desk, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword. "Anything else?"

She picks up a piece of paper off her desk—a written patient observation, by Solas, of his time spent with Skyhold's newest and most unusual resident. "Have you spoken with the fallen girl?"

"Have you?" Cullen replies, genuinely surprised. His concern is evident in his expression. "Tell me you didn't go alone. We've no measure of her power, or what she's capable of, if she's even human."

"Solas was there," Thana assures him firmly. She pauses for a moment, and then admits, "I appreciate your concern."

She is surprised when Cullen approaches closer. He places a hand on her desk. "Without you, there is no Inquisition," he says, with a passion that surprises her further. "I know you've just been elected, so to speak, but you've no idea how morale has spiked, how hopeful the soldiers are."

"I inspire a lot in people?" she says, half-asking, half-stating a fact. It is still unusual for her. A lifetime ago, when she was a Dalish scout and hunter, she inspired nothing except gratitude for another meal. To have an entire army look up to her is foreign. To have the fate of Thedas on her shoulders is unexpected and at times, frightening.

Cullen's voice breaks her from her thoughts. She shakes her head to clear it and says, "Say again? Sorry."

The commander flushes again, looks away, and stammers. "I only said…that you are—err—very inspiring. That's all."

She narrows her eyes and smiles a bit playfully. "Hiding something, commander?" she asks, fighting to keep her voice even. At times his shy awkwardness had her melting inside.

He looks alarmed for a moment before recovering his composure. He meets her gaze and again, something sparks. "From you? I would never."

She swallows back her thoughts and is the first to look away. "That's…good. If I can't trust my advisors, who can I trust?"

Something in her tone or her words seems to wound him. There is sadness in his own voice that makes her heart ache. "Your advisor. Yes."

"Cullen."

"I should be going," he says abruptly, holding up his hand to beg for her silence. He does not meet her pleading eyes. "If you will please excuse me, I'm sure the army scouts have a report waiting."

Thana straightens, and gestures towards the exit. "Of course."

The commander bows, stiffly, and exits quickly.

In her quarters, Thana bangs her fist on her desk in frustration, throwing herself into her chair and sighing sharply. How infuriating her position, to be torn constantly between her professional duty as head of the Inquisition and her personal desires. She shuffles through her papers, until she finds her sketchbook, and flips open to the middle. The beginning pages are old, from when she was but a simple Dalish: sketches of leaves, plants, animals. Useful things.

Towards the middle, the sketches change. She begins to experiment with hands, mouths, faces. The same hands, those stubborn lips, the planes and angles of _his_ face. She opens to her most recent sketch, capturing a moment when she caught him laughing. The crinkle around his eyes, and the light within them fascinates her. Now matter how she tries she cannot seem to properly capture _him_.

With a sigh, she finds her charcoal, and tries again.

* * *

In the hall outside her quarters, Cullen bangs his fist against the wall and sighs sharply. He never says the right thing. It is _her fault_ for being so—no, no, he cannot fault her for being as lovely as she is. He recalls, as he often does, the attack on Haven. He remembers it not as the night he lost good soldiers, but as the night he _almost_ lost her.

"Inquisitor," he says aloud to himself. "…Thana."

With a sigh, he gathers himself, and returns to work.

* * *

The sun moves not half a mark across the sky when there is another knock at her door. Thana glances up, putting the finishing touches on her official writ for Josephine. She expects to see the ambassador herself, or one of her inner circle. They are the only ones, save a few select servants, to have a habit of bothering her when she is in her quarters.

Instead, she is surprised to see a stranger—no, not a complete stranger: the girl who fell from the sky.

At first the Inquisitor does not recognize her. The girl—Lunete, wasn't that her name? —has clearly refreshed. Perhaps it is the open and airy lighting of Thana's quarters, but Lunete seems more human and less like the waking dead. Her thick red hair has been washed and pinned up back from her face, the rest falling in damp waves down her shoulder blades. Her skin is far less pale and more freckled than Thana remembers. She wears a dress of blue and gold that fits her well enough in most places, though it seems to be loose around her shoulders and waist. She stands with her back ramrod straight, her hands tightly in front of her, as though she is nervous.

Two soldiers flank Lunete, and salute Thana with one arm across their chests when she rises to her feet.

"Hello," Thana greets, crossing around to the front of her desk and giving the soldiers a nod. "I'll take it from here, gentlemen."

The soldiers exchange glances, as though daring the other to speak. Finally, one soldier with a nose that clearly been broke once or twice speaks up, "Pardon me, Worship, but Commander Cullen gave us orders—!"

The other soldier pipes up. "Very strict and specific orders!"

"We're not to leave you alone. Not until the mystery surrounding our—err—visitor is solved," the first soldier finishes firmly. They salute her again and step back, taking positions at the top of the stairs leading up to the main chamber of Thana's quarters.

With a sigh, Thana gives Lunete a kind look and gestures to the white couch. "Would you care to sit? I can send for drinks."

Stiffly, Lunete shakes her head at the mention of sustenance. "No, thank you. I've had enough food forced on me, and I'm not even hungry. Your servants are very…persuasive."

The Inquisitor laughs and lowers herself onto the couch. "They were under instruction from Solas, the mage who oversaw your recovery. His orders are taken seriously. Please, sit."

Lunete eyes the seat yet remains standing. "You are very trusting," she says flatly, and Thana realizes that she has an accent, albeit a slight one. It takes her a moment to recognize it for what it is: Tevinter. "Since I awoke…I understand I am not a welcome guest. I seem to be the herald of bad news."

Unable to resist a good chuckle at the poor girl's choice of words, Thana readily admits, "Commander Cullen often slaps my wrist for being too quick to drop my guard. Among my clan, trust was necessary. We depended on one another for survival. It breeds a particular kind of loyalty between your clan members. When I was sent to the Conclave—when I woke up with the Mark, I was suddenly the untrustworthiest person in Thedas. I hated it."

Lunete glances out the window, her lips a tight and thin line. "You have their trust now."

"You might earn it as well," says the elf, leaning back against the cushions and regarding her visitor. "What do you remember?"

The girl sighs and turns listlessly away, folding her arms beneath her chest. "Bits and pieces, fragments of memory. Sometimes I remember voices, but I don't know who they belong to."

"I've read the report from Solas," Thana says softly. "Last time you were awake was the Black Age? In Tevinter?"

Lunete shrugs and speaks distantly, staring off into the mountains without actually seeing them. "I remember a castle—a grand tower, surrounded by forests. I lived there. I remember…receiving news of the war. It was cold, in that tower, and there wasn't another village in eyesight. I—that is all I can recall. That, and my name."

Rising from the couch, Thana crosses to one of her bookshelves, scanning through the titles. While she has barely any time to read, there is one volume she knows she possesses. "Perhaps—yes, here we are. _A Thedosian History_, by…some Chantry sister. I admit that I haven't read it—Vivienne recommended it—but it might help you 'catch up,' so to speak."

She extends the book to Lunete, who takes it gingerly and flips it open, scanning the table of contents. "Thank you," she says with a sigh. "It is overwhelming, to have missed so much." Her brow furrows. "I—I can't read half of it."

Surprised, Thana crosses to her and glances over her shoulder. "You speak the common tongue. Can you read?"

"I…I thought I could. I can make out certain words. It is not…what I am used to reading, I don't think," Lunete says slowly, tracing a sentence with her finger and puzzling through it. "_The Rise of the…the…Qunari?_ What on earth is that, some kind of hostile plant?"

Immediately Thana laughs, though she quickly recovers. "I'm sorry—I'm not laughing at you—I wouldn't say that around the Iron Bull, or any qunari, for that matter. They might be offended."

The human girl's confusion does not lessen. She shoots the Inquisitor a glare. "I've never heard of such a creature. It sounds like foliage to me."

Recovered, Thana considers. "I suppose—the qunari didn't arrive on mainland Thedas until after you were 'asleep,' or whatever you were. You wouldn't know." She sees Lunete's frustration, and gives her a gentle smile. "Qunari are—well, they're very large, and they have horns, and grayish skin."

"Now they sound like demons," Lunete says with a shudder, growing a touch paler at the thought.

Thana shakes her head firmly. "They _fight_ like demons, but they are not of the Fade. Right now, they are our allies, thanks to the Iron Bull. I will introduce you, later."

Her words seem to alleviate a touch of Lunete's anxiety. "I…suppose. It's distressing. So much has changed."

Placing an encouraging hand on her shoulder, Thana offers, "We ought to go see Solas. He has been working with my spymaster to solve the mystery of your arrival. Perhaps we can determine what sort of magic kept you alive."

Lunete shivers. "Something terrible. It was—magic has always been—nothing _good_ comes from it," she says with passion, meeting Thana's gaze. "I want nothing more to do with magic."

A third voice interrupts them. "That is unfortunate."

The two women turn to see Solas standing near the guards at the top of the stairs. He gives a polite bow to the Inquisitor. "Pardon the interruption," he says, "I had hoped to catch you in private."

Thana asks honestly. "Is this about Lunete? She deserves to know any information we have."

Solas glances coolly at the Tevinter girl. "You might rethink that stance, shortly."

"What is it, Solas?" Thana presses, glancing at Lunete, who stares determinedly at the floor.

The bald elf crosses towards the pair. "When Lunete was brought to Skyhold, I noticed she was wearing a peculiar necklace. If you recall, she was bereft of any other clothing when the scouts found her. I took this necklace to study it, thinking that it had something to do with her unusual arrival."

Lunete's eyes grow wide. "My—you took a necklace? What did it look like?"

Solas extends his hand and opens it, palm up. In his hand lies a token on a leather cord. Both Thana and Lunete lean forward to examine the token.

Thana is the first to speak. "It's a bone. A tooth, or something."

"Not just any bone or tooth," Solas begins, but Lunete cuts him off.

"It was a gift," she insists. "He…_he_ said it was from a dragon."

Solas shakes his head.

"This is the tooth of an archdemon. It is filled with taint. It practically drips with echoes of a long forgotten Blight," he reveals, looking hard at Lunete. "Chances are, you are tainted as well."

Lunete balks. "I am _not_. I feel fine."

Thana intervenes. "Wouldn't she have died?"

"Not if she was frozen in stasis. She may very well die soon, if the disease catches up with her," Solas says, his tone colder than Thana has ever heard it before. "There is another possibility. No one should be able to survive exposure to this level of taint. Your prisoner, Inquisitor, is either a Grey Warden or…"

The Inquisitor's face grows pale and she steps away from Lunete as though she were on fire. "Is that possible?"

Lunete looks nearly ready to cry. "Or _what?_"

Solas clasps his hands behind his back. "Call you guards, Inquisitor. Your new friend is either a Grey Warden…or a darkspawn."


End file.
